She stood in front of Pastor Jim with Lorelei and Sidney as her maid and matron of honor, respectively. Kipp acted as best man for Nick as they tied the knot under the gazebo at the yacht club.
It was a small ceremony--a larger group wouldn't have fit onto the floating dock--but it was perfect. They wrote their own vows, and Tori knew she'd have to ask Nick to repeat his later because after "I forgot how much I needed you, but fate brought me back to remind me" she started bawling and barely heard another word he said. And she wanted to remember those promises to love and honor because her husband never made a promise he didn't keep. Not to her and not to their daughter.
He'd said he would love them forever, and he was a man of his word.
Three-time RITA finalist and Golden Heart(r)-winning contemporary romance author Lizzie Shane was born and raised in Alaska and still lives in the frozen north when she isn't indulging her travel addiction. After college, she worked in the entertainment industry for about fifteen seconds before deciding she'd rather write about love in the wilds of Hollywood than live it. Now, she uses the long winter nights in Alaska to create more happily-ever-afters. Lizzie also writes paranormal romance under the name Vivi Andrews.
For more about Lizzie and her books, visit http://www.lizzieshane.com.
BRANDON CLARKE-DAVIES TOOK A long, slow sip of his pint of Guinness and laid an arm across the back of the red leather booth nestled into a quiet corner of the pub. His eyes dropped to the white folder on the table in front of him, the light blue MI5 insignia in the top left corner.
He tapped it with one finger. "Not that I'm complaining about the free pint, but what are we doing here?"
Harry leaned against the booth and glanced around the small pub. Despite the fact that it was just shy of two on a Thursday afternoon, The Red Lion was bustling with patrons.
"She should be here any minute." Harry drummed his fingers on top of the folder.
Brandon glanced out the windows on the opposite side of the pub, watching the traffic crawl by on Parliament Street. Weak summer sunshine filtered through the parting clouds, glinting off the puddles dotting the cobbled sidewalk. With an arched eyebrow, he shook his head at his boss's secrecy and picked up his pint. As a highly trained MI5 Intelligence Officer, he was used to discretion.
He'd just tipped the pint glass to his lips when the sharp click of heels against the scarred wooden floor got his attention and he froze, shock turning his blood to ice water in his veins. Chiding himself for his minuscule slip in composure, he set the glass down and leveled his gaze at the woman standing in front of their table. Wrapped in an elegant Burberry trench, her hands shoved casually in her pockets, she tipped her head and gave them each a small smile before sliding into the booth right beside Brandon.
"Gentlemen."
Her voice, just as low and husky and feminine as he remembered, hit him like a kick to the gut.
Harry shot Brandon a look. "Thought you might want to have the meeting here, as opposed to the office. In front of ... you know. People. "
"You're a bloody saint, Harry," he said, his jaw wound so tight he was surprised he could speak. He forced his shoulders to relax, unclenched his fists, and didn't allow himself to reach for his pint. He dared a glance at the gorgeous woman sitting beside him, her legs crossed, her hands folded on the table as if sitting next to him were the most natural thing in the world.
But it wasn't, because he hadn't seen her in six years. Natasha Rowe. His ex-wife.
"Nice to see you, Brandon," she said, the hardened consonants of her American accent sharp against his ears. As a wave of nostalgic desire crashed into him, he looked at her with what he hoped was a bemused expression because he had no idea what the hell to say. He sucked in a deep breath, which was a terrible mistake, because it brought with it her lavender scent, as warm and familiar as ever. Memories, most of them happy and exciting, floated to the surface, but he squashed them and plastered a thin smile to his face before they could suck him under, a tsunami disguised as a gentle wave.
Harry's eyes flicked from Brandon to Natasha. If he picked up on the surprise, the anger, and, goddammit, the lust crawling beneath Brandon's skin and threatening to burst out, he didn't let on. With quick, efficient movements, Natasha unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it, letting it pool around her waist. Her red tank top cupped her ample breasts perfectly, leaving a subtle amount of cleavage on display. She ran her fingers through her chin-length dark blond hair and suddenly he was half-hard, watching her breasts strain for freedom beneath the red fabric. God, those tits. As if he'd ever forget how good they felt in his hands. In his mouth.
No. He couldn't let his mind go down that path. He needed to focus on other things. Like the fact that two years into their struggling marriage, she'd walked out on him without a backward glance. That's what he needed to be thinking about, not her glorious rack.
"Shall we?" asked Harry, leaning forward and flipping open what Brandon now realized was a mission dossier.
Bloody fucking hell.
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, Harry plowed ahead, spreading several pages and photographs across their sequestered table. "Last week, the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases in Maryland was breached."
Natasha cut in. "We believe that Sergei Silayev, one of Europe's biggest arms dealers--"
"I know who
Sergei Silayev is." Brandon's skin crackled with angry impatience.
She nodded and continued. "We're certain that Silayev's agents were responsible for the breach."
"What was stolen?" asked Brandon, his eyes narrowed as he studied the image of Silayev in front of him.
"Several vials of Marburg virus." Brandon's eyes met Natasha's as the magnitude of what she was telling him sunk in. One of the biggest arms dealers in Europe--if not the world--had stolen several vials of a highly potent and deadly biological weapon.
"Fuck me," muttered Brandon, finally allowing himself another sip of his Guinness. Something flashed in Natasha's gray eyes, a hot, searing spark, and she rubbed her thighs together, almost imperceptibly. Almost. "How did you lot cock-up so bad that you let one of Silayev's agents infiltrate an Army base?" He was deflecting, trying to cover his own arousal at seeing Natasha again. She didn't bat an eye, not allowing herself to be baited.
That was new.